


The Name We Gave Tomorrow

by isyotm



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Friends to Lovers, Graduation, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10620198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyotm/pseuds/isyotm
Summary: Kindaichi and Kunimi are graduating soon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Kimi ni Todoke (Reaching You)" by Tanizawa Tomofumi. Inspiration from "This Ruined Puzzle" by Dashboard Confessional.
> 
> For anyone who's not familiar with it, yearbook signing is a tradition at the end of the year where you give your yearbook to friends (and sometimes teachers) and ask them to write a personal message (usually fun memories from the year) in it. Sometimes it takes people a while to sign it (and they'll fill up a lot of space), especially if you're both really close. If you're not, they might just put "have a great summer" (or even just "H.A.G.S.") and their name and hand it back. Senior portraits are fancy pictures that seniors take and they're a lot nicer than normal pictures (it's a big deal, like engagement photos. There are plenty of examples on Google, but the ones that go in the yearbook look like [this](http://www.susanblackburn.biz/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/High-School-Portraits-Sartoga-NY.jpg)).

Yearbooks come out exactly two weeks before summer vacation, a fact that Kunimi finds impossible to forget, since Kindaichi hasn’t stopped complaining about it since the announcement was made last Monday. He’s not sure what difference it makes—whether they come out _right now_ or two months from now or two weeks before summer vacation and graduation, before they drift apart and away from each other and off to their next lives—but he’s already pointed that out and he’s not interested in rehashing the same argument.

(For the record, it went like this:

“What difference does it make?”

“A lot of difference!” Kindaichi declared.

A pause while Kunimi decided whether or not he wanted to expend the energy on this. He decided he did, curious as to why Kindaichi was so fired up about something as stupid as yearbooks in the first place. “That’s not really an answer.”

“Two weeks isn’t enough time!”

“For what?”

“For everyone to sign! What if someone takes too long and I don’t get everyone’s signatures and we graduate and I _forget people_?” Kindaichi acted like this was the worst thing in the world, even though less than an hour ago he’d been saying he couldn’t wait to leave their annoying classmates behind.

Kunimi didn’t snort but it was a near thing. Instead, he fixed Kindaichi with a flat stare before going back to the math homework they’d been working on.)

He’s fine with waiting, he thinks, as he stares out the window during class, his mind far from whatever the teacher is lecturing about at the front of the room. Let the minutes stretch away from him, each one as long as a thousand hours. Let this school year last forever. In the fall, he and Kindaichi will be going away to different colleges, the first time they’ve been apart since the first day of sixth grade, and he still hasn’t figured out how to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

To be fair, the teachers don’t even try and get the seniors to focus the day the yearbooks come in. There’s two weeks left of school, tests are over, and as long as no one tries to kill each other, there’s no reason to bother with the pretense of teaching. Kindaichi fidgets in his seat, eyes fixed on the clock that _tick, tick, tick_ s ever so slowly, counting down to the end of their time together.

“Staring at it isn’t going to make it go faster,” Kunimi reminds him. There’s a book open on the desk in front of him, but it’s hard for him to pay attention to it. His mind keeps going back to the sealed envelope stuffed in his backpack, hidden underneath a pile of notebooks full of information he’s already forgotten.

“You’re not looking forward to it at _all_? I want to see how many volleyball pictures we’re in. And whether or not my senior photo came out okay.” Kindaichi makes a face. “My mom made me slick back my hair. It’s going to look so weird.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He glances at Kindaichi out of the corner of his eye. What will it be like to not see him every day? Next year if he wants to share something with Kindaichi, he’ll have to pull out his phone and try to wrestle everything into words. Just the thought of it makes him tired.

He wonders if the other boy will miss him at all. Kindaichi’s always looking forward but Kunimi wouldn’t mind if he slowed down. He wants to tug on Kindaichi’s hand, make him go at Kunimi’s pace for a little while, so they can enjoy the now and get to the future when they get there.

He glances down at his hand and wonders what it would be like to intertwine it with Kindaichi’s. A study in contrasts maybe, his pale and slender fingers next to tan and strong ones.

The bell rings, startling him out of his reverie. Kindaichi laughs at the look on his face. “Fell asleep?”

“Something like that,” he says quietly, voice barely audible over the sound of their classmates rushing out the door, as eager as Kindaichi to get their yearbooks. Kunimi glances down at his hand one more time before stuffing it into his pocket and following Kindaichi out of the classroom. He’ll have time for regrets later. It’s better to focus on the moments they have while they still have them.

 

* * *

 

The yearbooks are sleek black matte with white glossy lettering spelling out the name of their high school and this year’s theme. Kindaichi’s name is embossed on the cover in silver in the bottom right hand corner. Kunimi raises an eyebrow at it.

“My mom didn’t want me to lose it,” Kindaichi explains as he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Kunimi smiles. “Smart.” He gestures lazily at the hundreds of other students huddled around identical yearbooks. “Since everyone’s looks the same.” He watches over Kindaichi’s shoulder as his friend flicks through the pages, huffing impatiently at the ones that don’t have anything to do with either of them, and Kunimi watches as a year’s worth of memories passes by in an instant. Eventually, Kindaichi makes it to the sports section and he slows down slightly, turning past cheerleading, basketball, baseball—

“Look, it’s us!”

Kunimi recognizes the white and pale blue of their team’s volleyball uniforms and the bright shiny wood floors of the court where they spent most of their time before and after school. His eyes roam the page, taking in the familiar faces of teammates and—

He blinks. There in the corner is a picture of him and Kindaichi standing together during practice, Kindaichi’s face split into a huge grin while Kunimi just stares at him. He remembers that moment, if only because it was when he finally decided to stop ignoring the heat that flooded his veins every time Kindaichi stood too close, the fluttering feeling that filled his stomach whenever he managed to make Kindaichi laugh, and let himself call it what it was.

And someone saw.

Someone captured that moment, froze it in time, and put it in the yearbook.

The yearbook that hundreds if not thousands of pairs of eyes are looking at _right this moment_.

Kunimi feels suddenly exposed and he can feel his cheeks going hot. He shifts his weight away from Kindaichi and wonders if anyone is staring at them. Can they tell? Is it as obvious to everyone else as it is to him?

It takes him a moment to realize that Kindaichi is speaking and he panics, but it’s nothing, just his friend reading the caption out loud. “‘Yuutarou Kindaichi, senior, and Akira Kunimi, senior, share a laugh during afternoon volleyball practice.’ More like ‘Yuutarou Kindaichi, _amazing_ senior.’”

Kunimi flicks his hand. “You’re going to tear the page.”

“Oh, oops.” Kindaichi shifts his grip on the book and then suddenly snaps it closed and thrusts it at Kunimi. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to sign it?”

Kunimi stares at the yearbook and thinks about the sealed envelope in his backpack, the words that he’s been holding back since that day at practice, the feelings he’s been holding back even longer, and shakes his head. “I’ll go last.”

“What?”

“I’ll go last. Get other people to sign it first.”

“What if there’s no room left?”

Kunimi snorts. “You’re not that popular, don’t worry.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the day before the last day of school when Kindaichi hands him the yearbook again.

“Your turn.”

Kunimi blinks at it. “Already?” he asks, the word escaping his mouth before he can stop it. He realizes he’s been hoping he’d run out of time, that he could hold onto the envelope and his feelings forever and leave with the taste of “almost” on his tongue. Bitter, yes, but much sweeter than rejection.

“Yeah, you’re it. Everyone else already signed.”

Personal messages in different colors and handwriting cover the previously empty white pages at the front and back of the yearbook. There are more inside, squished in between the table of contents and around the title page. Flipping through the book, he sees some people have also left notes (“what was I thinking with this shirt?” or “looking fresh!”) or just their signature next to their pictures.

“Okay.” He hesitates and adds, “Can I give it back to you at the end of the day?” He has science next, his only class without Kindaichi.

His friend blinks. “Okay… I mean yeah, that’s fine, but you realize you’re going to have to carry my yearbook around all day, right?” Kindaichi points a threatening finger at him. “You can’t leave it somewhere just because you got tired, got it?”

Kunimi brushes his hand away. “I know, don’t worry.”

When Kunimi gets to his science class, he pulls out a pen and looks for a blank spot to sign. He doesn’t write anything special, just a simple “It was fun playing volleyball with you. Have a great summer” and his name. Everything else he wants to say has already been written down.

He glances around the classroom, but no one is paying him any attention; everyone else is either huddled together and cooing over yearbooks or sleeping or playing on their phone. He flips to the volleyball page and places the envelope neatly in the fold. He glances one more time at the picture of the two of them and then, feeling bold, grabs a piece of tape and places it next to the caption. On the tape, he draws a little arrow pointing at his face and writes, “When I finally let myself be in love with you.”

When he gives Kindaichi back the yearbook, he says, “You can’t read what I wrote until after we graduate.”

“What? That’s so lame.” Kindaichi tries to tug the yearbook out of his grip but he holds on tight.

“Promise.” He’s surprised by the serious tone of his voice and he can tell Kindaichi is too. He looks the other boy in the eyes and sees something soften.

“Fine, I promise,” Kindaichi says. Kunimi lets go and Kindaichi stuffs the book into his bag.

 

* * *

 

Standing on stage in his cap and gown, the lights so bright they nearly blind him, Kunimi feels something in his chest release. He feels adrift in this moment, so very a part of it and so very apart from it at the same time, and he looks around for something to hold onto. Of their own accord, his eyes find Kindaichi at the end of the row. As if he can feel the weight of Kunimi’s gaze, Kindaichi glances over at him and grins, flashing him a thumbs up out of view of the audience. His smile is smaller than the one Kindaichi gave him, but no less bright. They’re here. They did it.

 

* * *

 

Three days after graduation, the summer heat makes itself known. The air is hot and it feels like Kunimi is swimming through it until he finally gives up and stretches out on the floor and watches the fan blades whir overhead, barely stirring the still air for all the noise they’re making.

Kunimi is wondering if it’s even worth leaving the house to go to the corner store and get some ice cream when he hears a persistent loud knock followed by someone impatiently ringing the doorbell. Kindaichi, he assumes immediately.

It takes that thought a while to permeate through the thick haze of his brain, but when it does, he sits up straight and stares at the front door, filled with horror. It’s Kindaichi. Kindaichi must’ve found the note he left and now he’s here.

The knocking and the doorbell don’t stop and now Kindaichi has added yelling to the mix, although it’s hard to make out the words over the endless stuttering _ding-do—ding-do—ding-dong_. Kunimi wonders, if he lies very still, if he can melt into the floor so he doesn’t have to deal with this.

The knocking/doorbell/yelling combination is starting to give him a headache though.

He shuffles to the front door and opens it to find a red-faced Kindaichi on his doorstep, pausing to catch a breath.

“Hi,” Kunimi says, too softly. He’s half hidden behind the heavy weight of the door, afraid of whatever his friend is going to say next.

Kindaichi brandishes the yearbook at him. He stares. The yearbook?

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Kindaichi demands.

“What?” Kunimi opens the door a little wider, but expanding his vision doesn’t provide him any answers. He checks surreptitiously for the letter, but Kindaichi’s other hand is empty, and there’s no evidence of anything stuffed into his friend’s pockets.

He watches as Kindaichi cracks open the yearbook, clears his throat dramatically, and reads out, “‘It was fun playing volleyball with you. Have a great summer.’ That’s all I get? I’ve known you for _six years_ , Akira! The fucking freshmen on the volleyball team had more to say to me than you did!”

He blinks. The rest of the sentence washes over him and fades away again just as quickly. The only thing he can hear is the sound of Kindaichi calling him by name.

Kindaichi holds the yearbook by one of the covers and shakes it in front of his nose. “Do I mean _nothing_ to you?”

Kunimi watches in slow motion as something—the envelope, he realizes—slips out and falls to the ground in slow motion.

They stare at it, stark and pale against the dark concrete of Kunimi’s front step.

“What’s this?” Kindaichi says.

Kunimi slams the door shut. He absolutely does not want to see this play out. That was the whole point of making Kindaichi wait until after graduation in the first place.

He hears Kindaichi banging on the door again. “Akira, open up!” He shivers at the sound of his name. “Is this letter from you?” More banging. “I’m going to read it!” Kunimi rolls his eyes. “Did you hear me? I’m reading it!” Kunimi sinks down with his back to the door and curls into a ball, hiding his head in his knees. This is it. This is how it ends.

It’s too quiet for a long time. Kunimi wonders if Kindaichi left, disgusted or horrified or just embarrassed at the thought of someone he doesn’t like having such a desperate (because he was, he is) crush on him. Maybe later he’ll cry about this, when it’s dark and he’s alone in his room, but right now Kunimi just feels empty.

So this is what rejection tastes like.

The banging starts again, more insistent than before, and Kunimi nearly jumps out of his skin.

“This letter had better be from you!”

What is Kindaichi talking about? Of course it’s from him. He signed his name at the end.

“Do you hear me?” He doesn’t answer. “I know you’re still in there! I would’ve seen you trying to leave.” Kunimi stifles a laugh against his leg, remembering the time they tried to sneak out of his room late one weeknight—for no reason at all, really, just to see if they could—and  ran straight into his father arriving home from a too-long day at work.

The banging stops and he hears a soft thump. “Is it true?” Kindaichi asks, his voice soft and slightly muffled through the door. “Please come out, A-Akira.”

And that, that tone, the way he stumbles over Kunimi’s name, is so unfair. He has to open the door now, has to know what Kindaichi looks like when he says Kunimi’s name like that, sweet and wistful, like he’s full of the same longing that Kunimi has been drowning in, struggling to catch a breath, for years.

He stands and cracks the door open ever so slightly, meeting Kindaichi’s gaze before his eyes dart quickly away. He can’t handle the vulnerability written on his friend’s face.

“Is it true?” Kindaichi repeats.

“Yes,” Kunimi says to his feet. He wants to be flippant, to say something brave and snarky like “duh” or “no, I wrote you a four-page letter telling you I’m in love with you as a joke, you know, as one does,” but it’s hard when he feels like his heart is in Kindaichi’s hand and he’s just waiting for his friend to squeeze and crush him and his inconvenient feelings.

“Can you open the door?”

“What?”

Kindaichi leans against the door, pushing it open a little wider and revealing Kunimi in all his tank top and boxer glory. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

 _“Yes.”_ His voice is barely louder than a whisper and he wants to beg Kindaichi to stop making him _say_ it, please, he already feels raw and exposed. He doesn’t bare his feelings like this, he rarely even admits to _having_ feelings, and now he has to stand here and acknowledge all of it over and over again. Isn’t it enough that he wrote it down? Wrapped his heart up neatly and delivered it in a little white envelope?

“Can I kiss you?” Kindaichi blurts.

 He blinks. He’d imagined a thousand different scenarios, but never one where Kindaichi— “What?”

“Please?”

He hesitates and Kindaichi’s face begins to fall.

“Sorry, I—”

He reaches out and lays a hand against Kindaichi’s cheek, admires the hard line of Kindaichi’s jaw. He remembers watching as his friend grew taller, filled out, the confusing mix of emotions churning in his stomach as he stared and _wanted_ for so long without knowing what it was he wanted.

He leans in, enjoying the way Kindaichi’s face lights up until it gets too blurry for him to see and he closes his eyes. Kindaichi’s lips against his are soft, so soft, and when he feels Kindaichi press back he can’t stop the quiet pleased sound that bubbles out of him.

If rejection is bitter, having his feelings returned is sweet, so sweet, the taste of it light on his tongue, the heady joy of it rushing through his veins.

When he pulls back, he whispers, “Yuutarou,” and he hears Kindaichi gasp before their lips meet again. Something thuds to the ground beside him and he realizes as Kindaichi’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, that it’s the yearbook. When he looks down, he sees it’s fallen open to the volleyball page, the picture of him and Kindaichi staring back up at them. Kunimi smiles against Kindaichi’s mouth and pulls him in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The look of Kunimi's and Kindaichi's yearbooks is based on my senior year yearbook (which I helped put together and we won multiple awards for. Yes, you can win awards for yearbooks).
> 
> I read like seven Kinkuni fics today (that's an exaggeration but it was definitely more than I should've) and then I listened to "This Ruined Puzzle" and I was like "that's it" and then I got home and sat down to write this. The end of this kind of got away from me (originally I'd planned for at least part of it to be from Kindaichi's POV and there was going to be more time between when they graduated and Kindaichi found the letter), but I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
